


Delirious

by flippyspoon



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippyspoon/pseuds/flippyspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is ill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delirious

 

“I assure you I’m quite well, Mr. Carson.”  Thomas said it with a smile, but he had to lean against Carson’s shelf of wine decanters as he said it, hoping that would go unnoticed.

 

“You look terribly green to me,” Carson said, straightening a pile of papers and getting to his feet.  “And his Lordship said you…had an incident this morning?”

 

Thomas grimaced and another wave of nausea rolled through him.  He coughed and turned away, resting a hand on his stomach.  There had been an incident.  He had vomited into a giant vase in the library right in front of Grantham as breakfast was winding down.  Lord Grantham had looked almost amused.

 

“These things happen, Barrow,” Lord Grantham had said. “You’re to go to bed immediately.  Send a maid up, would you?  I do hope you feel better.”

 

Thomas had not agreed, but he saved the argument for Carson.  Normally, he would be only too happy to take to his bed for a day or two with his paper and a book.  But there were games afoot; treacherous doings in the form of one Mr. Green, the Grinning Valet for Lord Gillingham, who had lately charmed the whole of the downstairs during his stay and had specifically mentioned to Thomas that he certainly wouldn’t mind being an under butler himself and wasn’t Downton such a lovely house?

 

The timing of his illness was such that Thomas was starting to think he had been poisoned.

 

Terribly Green indeed.

 

Of course, he was also starting to think that Isis had been switched with another dog.  It was a strange thought that had appeared in his mind that morning, racing around to no finish line.

 

It was just  possible he was slightly delirious.

 

There was also the matter of his room. It had been pouring rain for an entire week. A weak spot in the roof had given in to holes one night and the men's quarters had nearly flooded. The others were staying in cottages; Jimmy and Alfred were bunking in the Bates' living room. Thomas had not wanted to share with anyone or even approach a conversation about sleeping anywhere near Jimmy, not when they had become such good friends. He stayed in his room, even though it was cold and damp, and his furniture was up on blocks and covered in canvas tarps.

 

Doubtless that was how he had gotten sick.

 

“You will go to bed,” Carson maintained. “But not in your room. We will... Just this once, as it is such an unusual circumstance, I'm sure they will allow you to use a guest room. Seeing as you are ill.”

 

A guest room... That was good, wasn't it? The guest rooms weren't flooded. The guest rooms were luxurious. Thomas's head felt like it weighed too much. His legs were jelly and they quivered.

 

There were two Mr. Carsons. He was sure he was about to vomit. He ought to leave and find a proper place to do it. He concentrated on _not_ vomiting.

 

“Mmm,” he said. He had intended to say: “I'm sure I'm fine.”

 

“Oh heavens, you're about to fall over,” Carson muttered. He took Thomas by the arm, leading him from the room. Thomas would've been embarrassed when he stumbled for a moment in the doorway, but everything was so cloudy and vague.

 

He blinked slowly as Carson led him through the downstairs. The hallways seemed endless. He didn’t' remember them being so long. They happened upon Jimmy and Alfred chuckling and muttering to each other, coming from the silver room. Jimmy frowned, his eyebrows turning down at the sight of Carson practically holding Thomas up on his feet.

 

“What...?” Jimmy said.

 

“Mr. Barrow is ill,” Carson explained. “He'll be staying in a guest room. You're to call Dr. Clarkson. Find Mrs. Hughes, would you?”

 

Thomas heard Alfred say, “He was white as a sheet.”

 

It was mortifying. Carson had to bring him a bin to be sick in even before he reached the upstairs. The journey to a guestroom seemed impossible. The stairs were too steep. He had to stop a couple of times to catch his breath. For a second he forgot precisely what he was doing.

 

“I don't feel so well, Mr. Carson,” He said, as he leaned on the banister.

 

“Ah, I know...” Carson looked worried. Carson never looked worried. Not about his well being. “I'm sure it's just a flu. Not _that_ flu, surely. You'll be right as rain in no time.”

 

Thomas nodded dumbly. “Right as rain.”

 

 

 

Mr. Carson left him in a first floor guest room, where Thomas sat on the bed, blinking slowly at the floor. A small waste bin sat nearby. His clothing felt stuffy and constricting. His brain felt full of too many thoughts and none of them made any sense.

 

_There's something I have to do. It was very important. Why can't I bloody remember? Green the valet. But I don't want to be a valet, I'm an under butler, that's much better. No, he wants to be an under butler. Ah yes, that's it. What can I do? I'll have to do something. Outside tar and feathers and I haven't got any feathers or tar. O'Brien would have an idea. No wait, you've fallen out a long time ago and she's in India. Of course. Bloody India is too hot anyhow. What was she thinking?_

 

The speed and meaninglessness of his thoughts made him tired.

 

“Mr. Barrow, you poor creature,” Mrs. Hughes said. She appeared in the room, carrying his pajamas. “I hear your ill. Dr. Clarkson's on his way to take a look. I've brought your pajamas. And I'll get someone to bring one of the old chamber pots in case of sick. That might be easier than this little bin.” She rested her palm on his forehead. “Oh Lord, you're very warm. I don't mean to be intrusive, but can you change your clothes? Mr. Carson says you're awfully weak.”

 

“I can manage,” Thomas said. Forgetting Mrs. Hughes was still in the room, he started to untie his tie, which proved oddly difficult. He'd untied his tie a million times. Why should it be hard? He felt like a helpless child.

 

Mrs. Hughes watched him for a moment and then closed the door behind them and came to the bed. “Please let me help you,” she said kindly.

 

“No no...” The knot of his tie made no sense.

 

“Think of me as a nurse.” She smiled at him and went about untying his tie. “Everyone gets ill, you know.”

 

It should have been more embarrassing, by all rights. But Thomas had to focus so hard on moving his arms and legs as Mrs. Hughes helped him take off his livery and put on his pajamas, that he didn't have room left for humiliation. His pajamas were a relief and when he was finally lying back under the covers atop the deliciously comfortable bed, he let out a long sigh.

 

“Do you need anything?” Mrs. Hughes said, her arms full of his livery.

 

 _A bloody cudgel to the head_ , he thought. He _could_ ask for just about anything and someone would likely bring it. A fine scotch to knock him unconscious would be nice.

 

“Eh, no,” he said instead.

 

“How's your stomach right now?”

 

He grimaced in response.

 

“I'll have someone bring up some seltzer...or some baking soda in water, that might help. Try to sleep though, Mr. Barrow.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Thomas was tired. His eyes ached. But he couldn't seem to fall asleep and so he lay, staring at the ceiling. A hall boy came with a clean chamber pot and skittered away. A few minutes later he heard murmuring that sounded like an argument outside the door. There was a soft knock and then Mr. Clarkson walked in, carrying his medical bag. Jimmy was hovering in the doorway and then he disappeared.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Barrow,” Clarkson said, smiling. “I hear you're not feeling up to snuff.”

 

Dr. Clarkson helped him sit up and examined him, listening to his heart beat and looking into his mouth and ears. He had to pause the exam when Thomas dry heaved for a few minutes, which _hurt_.

 

His temperature was apparently very high.

 

“Your friend, the footman, is awfully concerned,” Dr. Clarkson muttered. “He says his mother died of the flu. It's made him worry. I assure you, I haven't seen a death from Spanish flu in two years. But we'll watch you closely. I'm always nearby.”

 

Thomas sat up in the bed, breathing hard through his nose, watching Dr. Clarkson.

 

Jimmy. Jimmy was worried because his mother had died of flu? That was rather sweet.

 

“I have something I can give you,” Clarkson went on. He pulled a small bottle out of his bag and took out its stopper. It had a dropper attached. “Remedy from France. Should help with your symptoms. One drop under the tongue. Every six hours. No more than that. It can wreak a bit of havoc with the mind, make you see strange things, if you take too much.”

 

Thomas was wary, but eager to feel even a tenth better, and he obediently lifted his tongue as Clarkson stuck the dropper in his mouth. The medicine tasted sharp and alcoholic. Thomas flinched and coughed.

 

“I'll leave it in the charge of your footman, as he's so worried-”

 

“What's that?” Jimmy popped into the room. Had he been standing outside the whole time?

 

Clarkson held up the bottle and said to Jimmy, “One drop under the tongue every six hours. He's just had a dose, so not another until six o'clock. And see if he can keep down some broth in the evening?”

 

Jimmy nodded. “I will do.”

 

Then they were both gone and the medicine was making Thomas drowsy. He dropped off to sleep and dreamed vividly. He was a footman again, working alongside Jimmy. But they were serving mythical creatures at dinner; a dragon and a unicorn. The dragon wore white tie and argued about financial matters with the unicorn, who was dressed like the Dowager Countess. Then his younger self showed up at Downton and demanded his footman's livery and fell in love with Jimmy. Then he was a painter mixed up with a bunch of prostitutes who were sleeping in the downstairs at Downton until he tried to put a stop to it and was chased by gangsters. Then he worked at a shop that only sold coffee, where Jimmy kept showing up and gazing at him shyly.

 

He opened his eyes and saw Jimmy.

 

“Hmm. Unicorn,” Thomas croaked.

 

Jimmy mouth twisted up. His face was like putty sometimes.

 

“Unicorn?” Jimmy said wryly. He was sitting on Thomas's bed. “Has there been a unicorn in here?”

 

“Yes. No. In...dreams.”

 

“Sounds exciting. You feel any better?”

 

“A little but... I feel...drunk like,” Thomas muttered, sitting up a little.

 

“Might be that medicine. I've brought some broth, if you want to try it...”

 

He had a tray that folded out and he set it over Thomas's lap. Thomas tried to take a few tentative sips of broth, but he kept spilling it because his hands were still shaky and weak. The very idea made him blush.

 

“I've got it...” Jimmy said. He took the spoon from Thomas and went about feeding him broth.

 

“Well, this is ridiculous,” Thomas managed to say. Another in a long line of indignities for the day.

 

“Don't be stupid,” Jimmy argued. “You know, Daisy and Patmore are worried. They're really quite fond of you. Can't guess why though.” But he winked.

 

“Bloody perfect timing, I've got...” Thomas murmured.

 

“How do ya mean?” Jimmy said.

 

“Nothing, just...Green,” Thomas said, feeling suddenly tired again, he waved away Jimmy's spoon and sat back against the pillows. “He wants my job, I think. Well, he's got a window of opportunity to impress now.”

 

“Does he? I _knew_ there was somethin' off about him,” Jimmy said suddenly, punching the duvet with his fist. “He's far too nice. No one's that nice, it's revolting. And don't be daft, he won't have your job.”

 

Thomas sighed and glared at the ceiling. He did feel a little better after the medicine and some sleep. And it was lovely with Jimmy sitting right there. He wished Jimmy wouldn't leave. “Everyone likes him better,” Thomas said. His throat hurt, and it made his voice thick. “Don't care what ya say about Daisy and Patmore. _Carson_ likes Green a sight better than me and no mistake.”

 

Jimmy's brow turned down and he chewed on his lip. “Hmm. No. Don't worry about Green. I'll take care of him.”

 

“Don't get into trouble, Jimmy,” Thomas said. But he was touched.

 

“I won't. I told you, there's nothing to worry about. Can you take anymore broth?”

 

Thomas shook his head and Jimmy set the tray on the nightstand. “Well. I have to go serve luncheon or I'd... You know they ought to get you a bell or somethin' you can ring if you need anything... But, well, I'll check on you in case. Oh, and there's a glass of water and baking soda. Sounds odd to me but Hughes swears by it.”

 

Jimmy stood and nodded thoughtfully for a long moment.

 

“Thanks,” Thomas said.

 

“Hmm? Oh, no trouble,” Jimmy muttered. He stuck his hands in his pockets and made his way out.

 

Thomas went to sleep again and woke up nauseous and drenched in sweat. He vomited the broth up into the chamber pot and Alfred appeared as he was wiping his mouth.

 

“Ah, Mr. Barrow? Do you need anything? Should I get someone?”

 

“Ah...uh, the medicine?”

 

The medicine had made him feel better before. But Clarkson had something about every six hours, hadn't he? Had it been six hours? He felt as if it had been six days.

 

Alfred ambled over to the nightstand and found the bottle. “This stuff? How much?”

 

Thomas racked his brain. Hadn't it all just happened? He couldn't remember what Clarkson had said. “Uh...a drop or two, I s'pose,” he said raggedly.

 

Alfred was a little clumsy with the dropper and Thomas felt three fat drops under his tongue. He gagged for a moment until the sharp taste went away. He drank some baking soda water to wash it down.

 

Alfred watched him and shook his head. “Blimey, what a day. What with you bein' sick and now this trouble with Green.”

 

Thomas sat back, atop the covers, because he felt much too warm and sweaty. “What about Green?”

 

“Well...um...” Alfred hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. “Only Jimmy told me somethin' right scandalous about Mr. Green. He says he thinks he ought to tell Mr. Carson but he doesn't think he'd believe him. He asked me if I would, but I don't know if I want to stir the pot and all. And Green's such a nice sort. I ah... Well, what do you think, Mr. Barrow? It could be a spot of trouble if... Well, Jimmy says Green wants to stay on even.”

 

Alfred looked at him, imploring. Thomas's head was buzzing, but he managed to fix Alfred with a serious stare and say, “I think you ought to follow your conscious, Alfred. If whatever it is might cause the family harm, or even the downstairs... You must speak up.”

 

Alfred groaned and shook his head. “Blimey. Right. You're probably right. Thanks, Mr. Barrow.”

 

Alfred left him and Thomas started to feel a bit better, although he was still feverish and damp with sweat. His throat felt full and achey and his head buzzed like a hive of bees as the medicine kicked in. Thoughts were racing again, even faster.

 

Then he saw the unicorn.

 

It was the unicorn from his dream. It was blurry, but it was there, just barely visible in the vanity mirror in the corner.

 

“What're you doin' up here?” Thomas mumbled.

 

He got out of bed and crept over to the mirror. The unicorn disappeared.

 

“And stay out.” He waved a hand at the mirror.

 

_Green. I ought to go give him a piece of mind. Or...I ought to talk to Jimmy about it. Make plans. Yes, that's sensible._

 

Mrs. Hughes had left a dressing gown on a rocking chair in the corner. Thomas put it on with a little bit of struggle and left his room. In the hallway he whipped around, eyes alert, and nearly fell over from the motion. Someone might be looking for him. They'd want to put him to bed, but that wasn't right. He had to take care of this Green situation. Also, he ought to tell someone about the unicorn.

 

He headed in the direction of the downstairs. Or he thought he did. But he was absolutely certain that several walls had switched round and now he didn't know in what direction he was walking. A small black dragon, about the size of Isis, appeared in the middle of the hallway. It breathed fire and nodded at the library.

 

“Oh, that way?” Thomas muttered. He coughed painfully. “If you say so.”

 

In the library, Branson was dandling little Sybbie on his knee, reading a story. He looked up at Thomas in surprise.

 

“Barrow... You're ill aren't you?”

 

Thomas frowned at him and pointed back the hallway. “There is a dragon. Right there in the hallway. It's not safe for the children.”

 

Branson blinked at him. “A dragon. You don't say?” He rose to his feet, carrying Sybbie, and headed for the bell on the wall. “We'll get it all sorted out. Won't we?” He made a face at his daughter, who looked so like Lady Sybil. “Did you hear that, Sybbie? A dragon!”

 

“Well...” Thomas said slowly. He leaned on a chair. His limbs felt so heavy. “It did _seem_ friendly. But you can't be too careful. It didn't come in here though... Likely it can't read.”

 

“Hello!” Sybbie said brightly, waving at him. “Hello!”

 

“Hello, Miss Sybbie,” Thomas said flatly. “Are you well today? I'm not.”

 

“Hello!”

 

“She's not a strong conversationalist yet,” Branson said, chortling.

 

“Hmm.”

 

Jimmy and Alfred rushed into the library, and their eyes got big when they saw Thomas.

 

“What are you doing out of bed?” Jimmy demanded. “Come here...”

 

“There was a unicorn in the mirror,” Thomas explained, as Jimmy took his arm. “And then the dragon said I should follow it. Well, I think that's what it meant. We could get rid of them... I could hide a snuffbox in the unicorn's room or somethin'.”

 

“He's off his rocker,” Alfred muttered. “Maybe it's the medicine.”

 

“Wait, what medicine?” Jimmy said.

 

“The stuff from Dr. Clarkson, I think. I gave him some because he'd gotten sick-”

 

“He wasn't to have that until six, you dolt!” Jimmy hissed.

 

They were leading him out of the library and Thomas turned his head to say, “Goodbye, Miss Sybbie! Nice talking to you!”

 

“Hello!” Sybbie said.

 

“Jimmy, I'm not a footman, am I?” Thomas said.

 

Alfred and Jimmy exchanged amused glances. “No, you're under butler,” Jimmy said.

 

“I _thought_ so.” He stopped in the hallway and leaned on the wall because the motion of the them moving him was making him nauseated again. “You're a footman.”

 

“That's right.” Jimmy looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. Thomas squinted at him. What was so funny? Behind Jimmy and Alfred, Thomas saw a creature that was half-man and half-horse gazing at a tapestry on the wall.

 

“Jimmy,” Thomas said quietly, and grasped Jimmy's arm. “Don't be alarmed. But...there's a centaur behind you.”

 

“Really?” Jimmy said. “Half-man and half-horse? I fancy that idea. He should stay for dinner. Although they can be rather uncouth.”

 

“See?” Thomas said to Alfred. “He knows what a centaur is. He knows all about centaurs, he's very clever.”

 

Jimmy grinned at him.

 

“Come on, Mr. Barrow...” Alfred said, tugging on his arm.

 

“Now wait a minute,” Thomas insisted. “There's...something else. It's important.”

 

“Oh, is there?” Jimmy said. “I can't wait to hear it.”

 

Thomas rested a hand on Jimmy's shoulder and wore his most serious expression. “I think...I think I can read minds.”

 

Now Jimmy did snort a laugh and muttered, “Fantastic.”

 

“Don't see what's so fantastic about Mr. Barrow bein' delirious and causin' trouble,” Alfred grumbled.

 

They led him forward slowly. What was the point though if the walls had switched round?

 

Thomas pointed at Alfred as he walked. “He's thinking...about food.”

 

“He's always thinkin' about food,” Jimmy argued, laughing.

 

“And you,” Thomas said, pointing at Jimmy. “You're thinkin' that I'm adorable when I'm ill.”

 

Now Alfred laughed and Jimmy tripped over his feet in the hall, his cheeks turning crimson. “I am not! Alfred, I am not!”

 

“I didn't think you were,” Alfred said, looking at him funny.

 

Thomas sighed dramatically. “It's not fair, ya know, how they treat unicorns in service. Or dragons either. But I think the ones here are gentlemen. Lord, I hate mythical aristocrats.”

 

A wave of dull pain rolled through Thomas's head and he groaned, stumbling to lean on the wall again. He shut his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, Jimmy was looking at him, clutching his arms, his eyes afraid.

 

“I thought you were going to faint,” Jimmy muttered.

 

Sometimes Thomas still thought Jimmy might be _interested_. Like now. But then he was also sure the centaur was following them down the hall.

 

Thomas pointed at Alfred and said, “I like him better than you sometimes, ya know.”

 

Jimmy's mouth dropped open. “What-”

 

“Ho!” Alfred said. “Who's the favorite after all?”

 

“Yeah,” Thomas said nodding. “Clever attractive people can be so tiring. Dull people are much simpler.”

 

Jimmy blurted a laugh and patted a forlorn Alfred on the shoulder. “There there. He wouldn't have said it if he were lucid.”

 

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you don't think so?”

 

“Well, maybe.”

 

In the guest room, Alfred seemed content to let Thomas slump over onto the bed. Jimmy sent him away and helped Thomas get under the covers.

 

“Hmm, no, it's too warm,” Thomas whined.

 

Jimmy pulled back the duvet so that Thomas was only under the top sheet. He pulled a chair up and sat, watching Thomas, who shifted around until he was comfortable.

 

“Any centaurs now?” Jimmy said.

 

“No...” Thomas said. “S'pose they've gone.”

 

“I told Alfred that Green told me he's in love with Lady Rose. Well...I used naughtier words actually. Alfred will tell Carson. It's enough to frighten Carson and not enough to make a large fuss. But I think Green's taken care of. No worries. You're not goin' anywhere.”

 

Thomas relaxed his arms atop the sheet and smiled, even though his head was pounding. “Thank you, Jimmy.”

 

“It's no trouble,” Jimmy said. He was chewing on his lip again. Then he leaned forward and gently pushed the sweaty fringe off Thomas's forehead. He frowned when he touched his hand to the skin there. “Crikey, you're warm.” He leaned his arms on his knees, fidgeting with his hands. “I'm sorry you're ill. You shouldn't have insisted on staying in that damp room. Some awful mold probably got to you. Somethin' like that. I um...” He looked up with a sort of helpless expression and pushed Thomas's hair back again. “God, I'm not even foolin' myself anymore.”

 

Thomas blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“Nothin',” Jimmy murmured. “Just... Well, you _are_ adorable when you're ill.”

 

“I knew it,” Thomas said, smiling slyly.

 

Jimmy chuckled and leaned on his hand, gazing down at him. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

 

“What are we waiting for?” Thomas said. “Are we catching a train?”

 

Jimmy smiled at him. “You'll find out. As soon as you're better, Thomas. I promise you.”

 

Thomas felt suddenly very sleepy. But he hated to close his eyes because Jimmy was giving him his warmest smile. Thomas only ever saw it directed at him.

 

“That's your best smile,” he murmured, his eyes slipping shut against his will. “The sweet one.”

 

“Yes, good, get some sleep,” Jimmy said. Thomas heard him get up and move the chair. “I'll check on you again before dinner.”

 

“Love you,” Thomas muttered.

 

He heard footsteps and before he drifted off to sleep, he heard Jimmy say softly, “Love you too,” before he shut the door.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
